


don't you feel like severing?

by orphan_account



Series: at your side, i feel like a ghost [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Neglect, Eliza is a good mom, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Ghost John, Ghost John Laurens, Guardian Angels, Haunting, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, Inspired by Music, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Might write more, Misunderstandings, Philip Hamilton Lives, Suicide Attempt, They're both trying, alexander hamilton is a good dad, for the record i dont see them actually locking philip up in his room forever, i just wanted to write ghost!laurens, id say the suicide attempt is the biggest thing to worry about here, kind of?, or tries to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Why do we bother to stay?Why are you running away?Don’t you feel like severing?Everything’s just come together at lastIt’s broken, I don’t want to play(lyrics -- Evelyn Evelyn by Evelyn Evelyn)(no this isn't a lyrics fic this is just what inspired me to write some ghost!Laurens)





	don't you feel like severing?

He grew up surrounded by the same four walls.

They’ve changed over the years; covered by new rips and tears, new stains, new pictures and drawings. His old bed and clothes were taken away and replaced, his old toys stacked into a box and stuffed into a corner, the single window in his room barred and locked. His hair’s grown so long that he used to tie it back into a ponytail like his father used to.

He doesn’t anymore. John says it’s because of the war, but Philip’s not so sure.

The only thing he’s certain of is his room—of the same four walls that greet him when he wakes and whisper goodnight when he climbs into bed and hides underneath the covers.

Of the friend that’s followed him longer than he can remember.

He can’t recall who spoke to who first. As far as he knows, John always stood somewhere in his sight, always greeted him and told him how great he was, all the good he would do in the world, how he’d blow everyone away. He’s the best friend anyone could ever ask for.

Once two-year-old Philip spoke back, making an active effort to follow John around and pointing him out to Alexander and Eliza and calling him his “friend and uncle, John Laurens,” his parents had lost it. His father locked himself up in his office, his mother locked up old letters between the two friends, and Philip…Philip found himself locked in his room.

Indefinitely.

Lying on his bed, Philip glances around his room, the same four walls greeting him, pictures lining their peeling wallpaper. He spots one of his family, of his younger siblings and his parents, a missing spot in between them. Well, _two_ , though he can faintly see the outline of John in the picture.

_He_ , however, is nowhere to be seen.

His gaze hardens, hands tightening into fists.

Philip knows, deep down, not to blame his parents. Not to blame his siblings. He’s sick—or maybe just gifted, depending on who you ask. It’s not like he’s neglected; his parents give him everything he needs, treat him like a son, his siblings still playing with him and talking to him. They give him whatever he asks.

… _If_ he doesn’t ask to leave his room, that is. That’s the only catch: he stays in his room and “gets better,” and he can still have a family.

Philip pushes himself up into a sitting position, eyes stinging. He rubs at them, grumbling under his breath, tears blinked away and swallowed down his throat. His chest sinks heavy on his person, his soul aching. Reaching out.

John’s not in his room.

Slowly, focusing on his breath, Philip sighs and climbs to his feet. Makes his way over to his dresser, eyeing the brush sitting on it.

He picks it up and grabs a fistful of his hair.

God, what he’d do to leave.

His gaze bores into the mirror, bags under his eyes and fingers shaking. He can’t remember the last time he’s gotten a decent amount of sleep. He winces when the brush catches on a knot in his hair, grumbling under his breath. “ _Ugh_ —come on, come on, get—get _out_ —”

He yelps when the snarl comes out, brush coming free with a loud ripping sound. Mind not yet registering that the knot is out, his hand swings out before he can stop it, brush smacking against of the mirror and falling to the floor.

Philip bends down to retrieve it, cursing—grateful that John isn’t around to scold him over his language. Or encourage it, depending on his mood.

To be normal.

He picks up the brush, sighing, starting to weave it through his curls again. His eyes fall on where the brush hit the mirror, movements coming to a halt when he notices something different about it.

The glass is chipped.

He pauses, staring at it, eyes stormy and blurred, ringed with pink. His thoughts swirl in his head, spinning in circles, growing darker and darker.

He reaches forward and breaks the piece of glass off.

To be happy.

He holds it gingerly, tapping a finger on its smooth surface. Its jagged edge digs into his palm, bites his flesh, pulling up droplets of red.

His eyes widen.

An idea blooms in his mind, taking root in his brain, spreading its poison throughout his body until it consumes him.

He wraps his fingers around it, grimace toying with his lips.

To be _free_.

He raises the blade, a sob escaping him as he prepares to plunge it into his side. He wonders if it’ll hurt, if he’ll end up like Laurens, if Laurens will be mad at him, if his family will miss him _will_ they miss him God he hopes they do—

A hand lands on his shoulder, a voice snapping in front of him, “ _Hey_.”

Philip blinks, head snapping up. He meets John’s gaze, confusion and shock clouding his face, watching the other smile.

Realization hits him too late.

Eyes widening, Philip’s face turns bright red as he looks away. He puts the glass shard down, fumbling with his hands, “U-Uh…s-sorry. I, uh, I don’t know why I, um…why I…”

John’s smile falters, but he nods, letting the boy go. “You’re fine, bud. We all get a little caught up in our own heads sometimes.”

He rakes his fingers through Philip’s hair, tying it back for him. Philip considers telling him not to, that he doesn’t want to look like him or his father, that it’s fine if he leaves it down—but one look at John’s expression keeps him mute. He sits patiently, letting the ghost do as he pleases.

Laurens makes a point of solidifying his form, pushing the piece of glass off Philip’s dresser with a sigh, knocking it to the floor and refusing to give it as much as a glance. “Though, if you’re gonna leave the real world like that…take me with you, okay? It’s awfully lonely without you around to talk to.”

Philip sits still, hands gripping the sides of his chair. He swallows passed a lump in his throat, catching onto John’s double meaning. “O-Okay.”

They fall silent. John continues playing with Philip’s hair, making the boy’s curls bounce, the younger of the two leaning into the back of his seat. Philip feels himself relax, the coil wrapped around his heart and the heaviness of his limps leaving him, calm, contented exhaustion taking their places.

John meets his gaze through the mirror, pausing his movements. He wraps his arms around the boy’s forehead, wincing as his middle moves through the back of the chair, the ghost of the fallen soldier fading at his edges. “…Do you want to know what I do,” he says, “when I think about disappearing forever?”

Philip tenses. He looks over his shoulder, eyebrows quirked, “ _You_ think about disappearing?” he asks.

John nods into his hair. “Sometimes,” he answers. “Not often, but it happens. Used to happen more when I was alive.”

“…Why?”

That makes the soldier think. “…Well,” he starts, “a lot of reasons. Life’s hard, Phil—there’s plenty of ups and downs to go around, and I’ve had my fair share of heartaches.” He jabs the boy’s shoulder playfully, grinning when he laughs. His smile falls as his thoughts turn dark. “…It’s probably why I was so reckless when I was still around.”

Philip sobers up at that. He looks his friend up and down, gaze wandering to the floor, to the fallen piece of glass. He jerks back, pressing himself against his chair again, eyes directed at the mirror. At John. “What do you do?” he murmurs.

John hesitates. He steps back, arms falling to his side, facing the bedroom window. He frowns at the bars nailed in front of it but does nothing except shake his head at them, crossing his arms and looking to the world outside, golden light shining through him.

“…Tell me a number,” he says.

Philip blinks. He turns around, thinking he heard him wrong, “A-A number?”

“Yeah. Any number—say from, oh, one to ten?” The other looks over his shoulder, smile on his face. He winks. “Doesn’t have to be, of course. It’s your decision.”

The boy hesitates. He stands, rubbing the back of his neck as he thinks. “Uh…seven?” he says.

John nods. He looks back out the window, hair swaying slightly. Philip can’t help but stare at the wound on his side, dried blood clinging to his clothes. He wonders if it’s uncomfortable, being covered in your own blood, wearing bloodstained clothes. Wonders if it hurts to die, to come back and watch as people move on and forget about you, how they purposefully ignore the fact you were every alive and do everything in their power to never mention you—

“Did ya know there are seven houses on this side of the street?”

Philip flinches. Eyebrows furrowed, muttering a simple “what” to himself, he steps forward, standing in front of the window—inside of John, though he doesn’t notice it.

John steps out of his way to let him look, and sure enough, he gets what he wants: a look of wonder from his younger friend. He can see how Philip’s lips move as he counts, finger tapping on the glass as he looks to each house.

“…Huh,” the young boy mutters. “I didn’t notice that before.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you didn’t.” John nods to the yard. “I also noticed that there’s new flowers growing down there. Not sure what they are, though—I’m not much of an expert when it comes to plants.”

Philip snorts, shaking his head, “Me neither.” He pauses, taking the blue and red and yellow buds into account. He leans forward, scanning the outside world, a frown on his face. He points to someone on the street. “…I don’t think I’ve seen them before…”

“Ah, you mean Jefferson? Yeah, he’s a real piece of work. Gives your dad a helluva time at work.”

“ _Everyone_ gives Pops a hard time at work.”

John bursts into laughter, Philip joining not long after. “Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, they do.”

The boy turns back to the sunshine, still snickering, watching the strange man disappear down the road. He waits, still looking, before pointing again, “There’s a couple of birds messing around over there.”

“You’re missing that fight between those two squirrels right there.”

“Ha! I didn’t even _see_ them! But did you see how…”

“Or what’s changed over here…”

“This reminds me of…”

“And that looks like…”

Their game goes one for a couple of hours; passing observations back and forth, telling jokes and laughing at every opportunity. Philip’s laughter echoes throughout the house, his parents downstairs jolting at the sudden noise and trading a look as it continues.

“Is he alright?” Alexander asks, leaning against the piano his wife sits at and lowering his voice so the other kids don’t hear. Not that they can’t hear the laughter, too—Angelica especially seems drawn to the sound, looking up with an expression of wonder and faint amusement before returning to what she’s doing.

Eliza shrugs, swinging her legs as she looks between the piano and the stairs. “I’m not sure…”

Her husband hesitates. He goes to push himself up but stops, eyebrows furrowed together. “…Should we check on him?”

“Would it do any good?” Eliza looks at him, her ponytail coming loose and hair hanging in her face. “Most times when we check on him when he’s like that, he gets irritated and refuses to talk to us.”

Alex huffs, “Would it _hurt_ to?”

Eliza doesn’t respond. Her face twists with pain, hands hovering over the piano keys as she shakes her head, letting out a shaky breath. Finally, she says, “I worry somedays that no matter _what_ we do, we hurt him.”

Her husband doesn’t know how to respond to that.

They whisper back and forth like that, both conflicted with the thought of making the situation worse, of irritating their son’s infliction further—but, albeit worried and confused, they decide to leave him be. Laughter’s good for the soul, after all—said to heal even the worst pains.

And, by the time John and Philip step away from the window and move on to other activities, Philip forgets all about the jagged glass shard that John hides underneath the boy’s bed, out of sight.

It’s for the best, really. It’d be a waste to sever what the two of them had—even if it wouldn’t be for forever.


End file.
